Life was good. I had a mom and a dad, two pretty okay brothers, and a pet beagle. Frizzy hair in a spaghetti-straight world was bearable as long as my friends didn’t call me Little Orphan Annie. Before my twentieth birthday, Mom and Dad’s marriage broke up, and Dad was gone.
“Mom, I’m home!” The screen door slammed behind me.
No response.
I walked into the kitchen, dropping my schoolbooks on the table beside Mom’s trademark chocolate coconut cake surrounded by three presents. Eyeing the carefully wrapped gifts, I knew one was the latest Amy Grant album I wanted. Shaking the others, I discovered the rectangular box held clothes. The other gift, I couldn’t figure out—it would remain a mystery a while longer.
My younger brother Jason soon entered the room, also coming in from school. My oldest brother was at work.
A little later, Mom quietly shut the screen door. The familiar footsteps on the hard wood floor announced her arrival. She sat in the closest chair, barely looking up as Jason and I entered the room.
“Come, sit down. I have something I need to tell you,” Mom said. “I’ve been to the doctor.”
She wasn’t looking at us. Jason hung his head. We both instinctively knew something bad was coming.
“I have a lump in my breast. The doctor is certain that I have cancer.”
The rest of the day was a blur. We probably ate the cake and sang “Happy Birthday,” but I don’t remember any festivity. The next night, Mom labeled three boxes with our full names. Only a mother would do that. She then began to go through the house gathering items to place in the boxes—stuffed animals, newspaper clippings, faded ribbons—long-forgotten memories of our childhood. The next day, my 43-year-old mother entered the hospital for a biopsy.
She died three weeks later.
I still have the Amy Grant album. The clothes are long gone. The mystery gift has been forgotten. But I received a gift that day I’ll never forget: The certainty that life in this world is short, and relationships are the most important part of that short life. I knew then that I wanted a forever family.
Mom’s death was my call to a life-long commitment to family—where relationships are celebrated as true treasures worthy of my life investment. Her death transported me to the place where personal fulfillment and career achievements ranked much lower than the call to hear God’s whisper, “Well done.”
Mom’s life and death gave me a longing for lasting relationships, families that beckon us home, and eyes to see the significance of the forever mom.
Adapted from an earlier article by Jayme Durant, published in 2000.
